Chapter 7 - Anja
The black SUV glides through the iron gates of the Sokolov estate like it owns the place. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, watching manicured lawns roll past under the late afternoon sun.
Tall oaks line the long driveway, their branches forming a tunnel of leafy foliage that opens onto a sprawling stone mansion and estate that looks like it stepped out of an old-world painting.
The gray stone walls softened by ivy, wide terraces filled with outdoor furniture, and the windows that gleam like they’ve been polished every morning for a century.
It’s nothing like the cramped rental houses I grew up in back home. Nothing like Fadir’s sleek glass-and-steel apartment that always felt one wrong word away from turning into a trap.
My stomach knots tighter the closer we get.
Sunday dinner with the Sokolovs.
Alexey mentioned it casually over breakfast yesterday, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Family expects you,” he’d said, voice level, eyes on his coffee. “It’s not optional, but it’s not a performance either.”
Now, as the car stops in the circular drive, I smooth my hands down the simple navy sweater and faded jeans I chose after staring at the guest suite closet for twenty minutes. Nothing too fancy. Nothing that screams I’m trying too hard.
My hair hangs loose across my shoulders, and I’ve kept my makeup light. Just enough to hide the lingering gray circles under my eyes.
Alexey opens my door before the driver can, offering his hand. His touch is brief, but steady. “They don’t bite,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching in that rare half-smile. “Much.”
I manage a weak laugh as we climb the wide stone steps. The heavy oak door swings open before we reach it, revealing a woman who can only be Arina Sokolov.
She’s in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with sharp cheekbones, her ebony hair pulled into a practical braid, and eyes that sparkle with something fierce and warm at the same time.
She wears a simple black blouse and jeans, but carries herself like she could run a boardroom or a battlefield without missing a step.
“You must be Anja,” she says, pulling me into a hug before I can brace for it. Her arms are strong, her scent a mix of something citrusy and warm bread. “Welcome. Ignore the testosterone. We outnumber them tonight anyway.”
I stiffen for half a second, as I’m unused to the casual touch that doesn’t come with strings. Then I relax a fraction when she releases me with a grin.
“Arina,” she adds, thumb jerking toward the house. “The sister who actually keeps this family from burning itself down. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Alexey follows behind me, one hand lightly at my back as we step into the foyer. The space is grand but lived-in with high ceilings featuring exposed beams, polished hardwood floors worn soft in places, walls lined with family photos in simple frames rather than stuffy portraits.
The air smells like roasted garlic, fresh herbs, and something sweet baking in the oven. Voices drift from deeper inside, low and easy.
We move into a large dining room dominated by a long oak table already set with mismatched but beautiful plates and candles that flicker softly. Arina gestures for me to take a seat near the head, then disappears toward the kitchen with a wink.
“Don’t let Alexey bore you with strategy talk. He’s in one of his patient moods tonight.”
Alexey pulls out my chair with quiet courtesy before taking his own across from me. He stays mostly silent, as usual, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture here. His shoulders are a fraction more relaxed, the ever-present edge of control dialed back just enough to let the room breathe.
A phone sits in the center of the table on speaker. Tikhon’s voice rumbles through it, deep and amused, laced with static from whatever secure line he’s on. “—and if Arina burned the potatoes again, blame Katya. She’s the one who taught her the recipe.”
Arina’s laugh echoes from the kitchen. “I heard that, you oversized oaf! The potatoes are perfect. Katya sends her well-wishes, by the way. She’s resting but says to tell Anja the soup helps with the nerves. She’ll join us in person when things settle.”
The casual mention of Katya, the woman Fadir tried to use as leverage, lands softly, without drama. No probing questions about how I fit into all this. Just easy acceptance, like I’ve already been folded into the edges of their world.
I sit there, fingers tracing the rim of my water glass, and feel the violent clash hit me square in the chest.
This easy banter, the way they close ranks without hesitation. It slams against every memory I carry like a wrecking ball.
The Midwest town I fled at eighteen, with dusty streets and judgmental stares. My mother walked out when I was nine, leaving nothing but a scribbled note on the kitchen table: I can’t do this anymore.
The house smelled like stale beer and regret after that.
Dad’s gambling got worse with late nights at the tracks, IOUs piling up, and all the strange men showing up at all hours.
Furniture smashing, glass breaking, and voices raised in threats that made my stomach turn.
”Viktor Kuzmin, you pay what you owe, or we take what’s left.” One of them laughed when a lamp shattered. Another mentioned “the girl” like I am collateral. Dad begged, slurring promises, while I pressed my hands over my ears and prayed they wouldn’t find me.
Those men aren't quiet. They are loud, brutal, chaotic, and Sokolov-linked, or at least that’s what the rumors said back home.
Bratva meant savages in my head for years after that night. Violent enforcers who destroyed lives over pocket change. Rather than let Dad marry me off to settle the latest debt, I packed a single duffel and drove until the town disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Now here I am, sitting at a long oak table in a mansion that feels like a fortress, surrounded by the very world I swore I’d never touch again.
Arina bustles in carrying a massive platter of roasted chicken and vegetables, setting it down with a flourish.
She ribs Alexey mercilessly about “that stubborn teenage phase where you thought reading Sun Tzu at fourteen made you invincible,” and he just offers a quiet huff of amusement, dark brown eyes flicking to me once across the table.
That look.
It’s steady. Protective. Not possessive like Fadir’s grip on my arm when he thought I might leave. Not calculating. Just… there. Like a quiet promise that nothing at this table will touch me unless I allow it. I hate how safe it feels.
How the tension in my shoulders eases a fraction under the weight of it. He’s part of the same murky life I ran from.
Yet the banter continues, with Arina teasing Tikhon over the speaker about his latest “secret mission” that probably involves too much paperwork, Tikhon firing back that at least he doesn’t burn garlic bread.
Katya’s well-wishes linger in the air like a gentle thread connecting us all. They naturally close ranks, protecting their own without making a show of it. No one demands anything from me. No one eyes me like a bargaining chip or a weakness to exploit.
Alexey's family is normal. Laughs are shared, childhood mishaps are being told, and people just enjoy one another's company. All things I've never experienced before.
The dread of crawling back home now, tail between my legs, and everyone knowing my “big-city dreams” ended in eviction and betrayal, is the furthest thing from my mind. I ran to escape that cycle. To prove I am more than my parents’ failures.
And yet, sitting here, the easy loyalty around this table feels… different. Honorable in its own strange way.
Arina passes me the vegetables with a warm smile, asking nothing in return but whether I prefer white or red wine. Tikhon’s voice cracks a joke about Alexey’s “patient sniper approach to everything, including dinner,” and even Alexey chuckles softly, the sound low and rare.
I eat mechanically at first. The food is delicious. Herb-crusted chicken, roasted potatoes that definitely aren't burned, and fresh bread still warm from the oven.
But the clash keeps hitting me in waves.
These people aren’t smashing furniture or threatening to take what isn’t theirs.
They’re bickering like siblings, offering well-wishes, pulling me into the circle without fanfare.
Alexey stays mostly quiet, contributing only when needed, but that one steady look across the table grounds me every time my mind drifts back home.
I hate it. I hate how safe it feels. How the black-and-white picture I painted of all Bratva as monsters is starting to blur at the edges, softened by the low light of candles and the genuine laugh Arina lets out when Tikhon complains about bad coffee on his end.
By the time dessert arrives, which is some kind of berry tart dusted with powdered sugar, the conversation has shifted to lighter things.
Arina asks about my old marketing job, not prying into the betrayal, but genuinely curious about what I liked about it.
I answer carefully, surprised at how easily the words come when no one is waiting to twist them against me.
Alexey’s gaze meets mine again across the table as I speak.
My chest tightens.
This is dangerous. The revenge against Fadir is still burning hot in my veins, the deal still clear. As a business only.
But sitting here, surrounded by the easy way this family closes ranks, the violent contrast with my childhood memories makes something fragile crack open inside me.
I push the feeling down hard as we finish dinner, helping Arina clear a few plates despite her protests. The drive back to the penthouse will come soon enough.
Back to the guest suite across the hall from Alexey’s room. Back to the careful lines and the strategic game.
But as I stand in the Sokolov dining room, the warmth of the meal still lingering, I can’t quite shake the echo of that steady look or the way their loyalty feels nothing like the chaos I fled.
It terrifies me how much I don’t hate it.
***
I’m curled up on the black leather sectional in the living room of the penthouse, a soft throw blanket draped over my legs, when my cell phone buzzes on the coffee table.
The sound is sharp in the quiet space. The gas fireplace flickers with its usual low, steady flame, casting shifting orange light across the pale oak floors and the marble island.
Alexey is seated at the far end of the sectional, reviewing something on his tablet, but the buzz draws his attention immediately.
His brown eyes flick toward the phone, then to me.
It’s a subtle shift in his posture that I’ve learned to recognize as quiet suspicion.
I pick up the phone. The screen shows an unknown number.
My stomach drops.
I know in my gut that the call has to do with my father. Every private, blocked, or unknown number is always about him. Someone looking for money. Money for his debts. One of the Bratva's connections, a bookie, or one of the shady “friends” he still owes from the old days.
The kind of call that used to make me hide in my apartment with the lights off, heart hammering, waiting for the voicemail that would inevitably follow.
Alexey’s gaze lingers on me a second longer. I can feel the weight of his suspicion, the way his shoulders tighten just slightly. The protector in him is already assessing whether this is a threat.
I force a small, casual smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll take it to my room.”
Before he can respond, I stand and walk quickly down the hallway to the guest suite, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The moment I’m alone, the mask drops. My hands are shaking as I stare at the still-ringing phone. The unknown number glares back at me like an accusation.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I let it go to voicemail, then immediately block the number with a few quick taps. The phone falls silent. I sink onto the edge of the bed, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
The suite feels safer with the door closed as I’m sitting on the big king bed with its crisp white linens, but the call has dragged the old memories back in.
When will this ever end?
My father’s mistakes have followed me like a curse for years. Even after I ran, and even after I built what I thought to be a new life in the city, the calls still came. Anyone who has a financial hold over my dad.
People he owed, who somehow always track me down. Fadir must've known about them, too. He used that knowledge, letting the debts deepen just enough to keep me dependent, and to make sure I had nowhere else to run.
Now, even with Fadir’s empire crumbling and Alexey’s protection wrapped around me like armor, the calls still find me.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to push back the familiar wave of shame and exhaustion.
I’m twenty-one years old, living in a penthouse that looks like something out of a dream, and yet one unknown number can still make me feel like the scared girl hiding in the closet while a ruckus continued in the other room.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Anja?” Alexey’s voice is low, careful. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just an old...” I swallow hard and force my voice to sound steady. “It was nothing.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door. I can almost see him standing there… tall, broad-shouldered, and that quiet patience radiating even through the wood. He doesn’t push. He never does.
“When you’re ready,” he says simply. “I’m here.”
His footsteps retreat down the hall.
I let out a long breath and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The city lights paint faint patterns across the plaster. The call is nothing new. Just another reminder that my past refuses to stay buried.
But for the first time, the fear feels smaller.
Because across the hall, Alexey is waiting. He’s not demanding answers or using my vulnerabilities against me. He’s simply… there. Steady. Protective. Choosing to give me space even when his instincts tell him to guard me more closely.
I close my eyes and rest one hand over my stomach.
Maybe the calls will never completely stop.
But maybe I don’t have to face them alone anymore.
And that small truth feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in years.